


an acrobat's guide to getting lucky

by shrill_fangirl_screaming



Category: The Posterchildren - Kitty Burroughs
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Other, Renaissance Faires, Renaissance Festival AU, Zip/Cindy as a side ship, everyone ends up happy and in love because i'm me, temporary Rosario/Clay because my homegirl can DO BETTER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-21 15:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrill_fangirl_screaming/pseuds/shrill_fangirl_screaming
Summary: Maksim Mikhailovitch Petrov is getting ready to perform as an aerialist at his fourth Renaissance festival this year when he meets June and Ernest and develops a couple minor- okay, major- crushes. Rennies are weird, communication is hard, and Maks, June, and Ernest are adorable.





	1. Chapter 1

“I can make you a better costume, you know,” a voice says from behind Maks. Well, now more like ¾ of the way behind Maks, because his silks are keeping him on a slow but steady rotation.

He releases one hand’s hold and drops a couple yards, spinning as he goes, until he’s right-side-up and facing the direction from where the voice came. It’s four o’clock on a Friday, well before any patrons are allowed on site, so the place should be deserted- hence Maks running through his routine one last time before all hell breaks loose for opening day. And yet, standing by the rail overlooking the seating area for this stage, is quite possibly the most beautiful woman Maks has ever seen, in head-to-toe perfect court garb. She has the body for it too, a Renaissance Venus in a corset and hoops, swathed in red silk and gleaming with ropes of pearls.

“Mine works,” Maks replies. “Besides, I have to be careful, with the silks. No zippers.”

He’s spinning again, which is very inconvenient for carrying on a conversation, so he gives up on his rehearsal and drops back to the ground. It’s probably easier on her neck anyway- she stands uphill of where he was, so the distance between them was less than it could have been, but he was still a good dozen feet above her. He bounces on his toes a couple of times, adjusting to being stuck on the ground once again, then bounds over to her.

She watches him come, one unimpressed eyebrow tugging its way towards a perfect riding hat pinned over brown curls and a black lace caul. “Do I look like a woman heavily reliant on zippers?” she asks.

“Not right _now_ ,” he says.

“I’m the costumer here,” the woman says, extending a hand with her palm down. “June Hovick. I promise, I can make you something better than what you have. I mean, just look at what _I’m_ wearing. I saw you adjusting those shorts between every move. You can’t be doing that forever.”

He considers shaking her hand, but what the hell- he takes it and carefully presses his lips to her knuckles, the softness of her skin contrasting beautifully with the cold kiss of the rings she wears on every finger. “I’m Maksim Mikhailovitch Petrov,” he says. “Maks. I’m not in the habit of saying no to beautiful women offering me clothes, but I’m a traveling entertainer, not a cast member. It’s not your job to dress me.”

“Well, someone has to do it, and whoever’s doing it now is doing a terrible job,” she says, with an aristocratic sniff. “Come by the costume shop before gate tomorrow- do you have to do anything right before gate, around 9:30?” Maks shakes his head. “Come by around then and we can talk options.”

Maks looks down at his outfit, which has indeed seen better days. His shorts are too tight in some places and too loose in others, and he’s always felt like a stupider version of Aladdin in the waistcoat he’d managed to find in a lost-and-found box two festivals back. “Sure,” he says, on a whim. “Where’s the costume shop again?”

She gives him a pitying look. “This is your first season with us?”

“Yes,” he says.

She sighs and extends a hand. “Come on, come on. Tell me you’ve at least worked at a Renaissance festival before, I don’t have the time to break in newbies.”

“No, I’ve done faires before,” Maks says, carefully taking her hand. She holds it out like a proper Elizabethan courtier, palm down at hip-height. He presses the back of his hand to her palm- another entertainer had explained to him at the last festival that palm-to-palm touching was borderline sexual for the period, and he’s only just met June- and trots along beside her.

She saunters along with easy confidence. Maks can’t help but look around, gaping at the site. This is the fourth faire he’s worked at, but they all vary so much. One had been little more than a patch of tents with a couple wooden stages in the middle of a field, whereas another had been all two-story structures crowding dirt roads full of people. This one seemed to spread comfortably into its space, winding asphalt paths with patches of grass and permanent structures scattered about, all white-and-brown in Tudor style with sloping shingled roofs. He can almost forget it's the twenty-first century, with this sixteenth-century lady at his side and the cobbler’s shops and taverns, but then a baker or something runs by in a period-appropriate dress and Crocs, and the image shatters.

“This place is massive,” Maks says, as they turn the next bend and are still, somehow, not at their destination. “I’m going to get lost.”

“That’d be pretty pathetic,” June says. “You’ll figure it out eventually, or the bears will eat you late one night.”

“I thought for sure I’d go down from something more impressive, like a tiger,” Maks replies.

June lets out a very unladylike snort, which just makes Maks beam. There’s something delightfully incongruous about a lady in a skirt with yards of fabric, with a _diameter_ , snorting with laughter. “You’re funny,” she says. “We should keep you.”

Maks laughs. “Sure you should.”

“So we’re leaving the proper site now,” June says, pointing to the gigantic arch over their head reading “Welcome to Sterling’s Renaissance Festival!” like he would somehow fail to notice it. “This is my favorite part, crossing the road like this. The poor drivers are always so confused.”

Because the site isn’t open, there aren’t any guards to stop traffic for pedestrians leaving the site, but a beautiful woman in perfect 1570s English court garb on the arm of a scrawny acrobat wearing nothing but booty shorts and a waistcoat tends to do that anyway. June gives a smile and an elegant wave with her free hand to the slackjawed motorist watching them pass. “See?” she says, pointing to the first small building on the other side of the road. “Costume shop. Can’t miss it.”

Point of fact, one could miss it, because it was one of five architecturally identical buildings- all one-story little huts that still looked more Elizabethan than American despite not being technically onsite- but Maks figured he could get close enough, at least. “Thank you, _my lady_ ,” he says, giving an exaggerated bow.

“No, no, no,” June says, immediately hauling on his hand to stand him back up. “Don’t bow, that’s common. Gentlemen give _reverence_ to ladies above their station. Back straight, head up, bring your left foot forward to show off the calf.”

“The calf?” Maks asks, contorting himself as she demanded.

Her eyes flick up to his from his legs. “The calf was the single most sexy body part to an Elizabethan noblewoman,” she says, voice quiet and low. “A well-turned calf could turn a lady’s head.”

Slowly but surely, a smile creeps across Maks’s face. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He gives her the funny little reverence she’d taught- maintaining eye contact and keeping his back ramrod straight, just bending his right knee and sinking backwards as he keeps his left calf forward, turned to show it off to June.

“There you go,” she says, a self-satisfied smirk on her ruby-red lips. “We’ll make a courtier of you yet.”

“Fat chance of that,” Maks says, wriggling his bare toes. “I’m an acrobat.” He shows off with an easy back handspring, careful not to clip any of her finery. “Can’t waste all of that by putting me in all those frills.”

June studies him for a long moment, almost long enough to make him uncomfortable. “Well, now I feel like I have to make you a nobleman’s outfit, just on principle.”

“Good luck with that, June,” he says. He notices that the sun’s starting to sink, and no way does he want to navigate this place in the dark, barefoot. “I should probably head back to my stage, to pack up all of my stuff, but I’ll see you here tomorrow. Thanks for showing me around.”

“Don’t be late,” she says to his back as he retraces their steps.

He waves. Fat chance.

 

When he makes his way back down the next day, exactly half an hour before the gates open, his first impression is _pandemonium_. He is a small guy with a small bag full of costume, but he’s finding it hard to slip through the crowd of actors getting dressed and getting props and generally running around like stampeding wildebeests. He almost flattens William Shakespeare before he manages to wrench open the door to the costume shop, throw himself inside, and slam the door behind him like it will keep the madness out.

“If you’re not ready yet, I will report you to The Queen and then not even God will be able to help you!” June’s voice calls from the other side of the room, behind racks of hangers and shelving units.

He walks into the shop, floor impressively clear despite the chaos of the day. “It’s Maks, the acrobat,” he says. “You asked me to come here.”

“Right,” June says. “Maks. Come here, I’m almost done.”

The sight waiting for him behind a clothes rack on wheels takes his breath away.

June, in nothing but a poofy white shirt, corset, and bloomers, kneels before quite possibly the most ripped shirtless man Maks has ever seen in his life. The man has boots and trousers on, standard fare around here for almost anyone in any class, but he doesn’t even have the flowing white undershirt everyone wears under their clothes. “I’m just finishing up with Ernest,” June says around a mouthful of pins.

He doesn’t know where to look. He genuinely doesn’t. Ernest’s _back_ is ripped, which he didn’t think was possible in real life, but June’s corset is doing incredible things to her already incredible rack, and while by modern standards both of them are dressed practically prudishly, Maks is acutely aware that they are both in their underwear, by Rennie standards, and Maks is a humble bisexual trying to live his best life and God is out to get him, him personally.

“Nice to meet you,” Ernest says, twisting his head to try and get a look at Maks.

“If you move, I will kill you,” June says, reaching up with a hand to wrench his chin back around. “I will give the other guy a real lance instead of the stage-dull ones and he will skewer you like a kabob.”

Ernest freezes. “Sorry, sorry.”

“I take it you’re a knight?” Maks says, walking around them both to get a better look at that chiseled fucking jaw because _good goddamn_. Seeing as June had made a reference to a lance, and also that the table beside them is bestrewn with chain mail and plate armor, it feels like a safe assumption.

“Yeah,” Ernest says with a smile. God, he has dimples. The world is unfair. “June’s trying to fix me up so things don’t slip while I’m actively jousting. Practice has been a little awkward.”

“Shoulda come to me first,” June says.

Ernest beams down at her, and _Lord God_. He has the kind of smile that takes up one’s entire face, dimples in his cheeks and eyes bright, and Maks is a _humble bisexual trying to live his best life_. “Although, I am going to be late if I stay here too much longer. Will it hold for now?”

June’s hands work for a second, then pull away. “Yeah, should be fine. Bring it back to me _immediately_ after the end of the day, okay? I can make it better.”

“Okay,” Ernest says, already pulling on a white shirt and a leather jerkin, enough clothing that he could wander around the site without being half-nude, which was honestly a crime akin to putting a canvas over a da Vinci. He piles up his armor into a wheelbarrow- because of course there’s a wheelbarrow nearby- and directs it towards the door.

He takes a few steps before he pauses, looking at Maks. There’s a long moment where Maks’s world narrows to a pair of bright blue eyes and parted pink lips. Then Ernest swallows and says, “You should come to our campfire tonight,” out of nowhere. “We’re at the farthest uphill point of the campsite, on the side furthest from the fair grounds. Some good food, good beer, good company. You should stop by.”

“I, um-“ Maks isn’t quite sure what to do with that invitation, but he’s a showman, and he knows how to act. He puts on a bright smile with a carefully calculated amount of nonchalance and says, “Sure, I can hang out for a while.”

“June will be there too,” Ernest says. “So.”

“Yeah,” Maks says, with another smile, this one much more genuine. “I’ll be there.”

“Great!” Ernest says, bright smile back. “Great. I’ll, um. I’ll see you there, then.” He then grips the handles of the wheelbarrow with white knuckles and all but flees the scene.

Maks is not a saint- he watches Ernest go. Well, Ernest’s ass. “Goddamn but that man is swole,” he says.

June sighs. “I know. It’s distressing. Now, strip and get over here.”

She adjusts her kneeling position, probably grinding dust into the flowing white fabric of her bloomers. “How far should I go?” Maks asks, pulling his shirt off over his head.

“As far as you want,” June replies with a smirk.

Maks wisely decides to keep wearing his underwear (but only his underwear) and stand very still in front of June as she whips her measuring tape around him again and again, making notes into her phone. “What are you thinking?” Maks asks.

“What are my restrictions?” June replies.

“No zippers or Velcro, nothing that could catch on the silks,” Maks says. “I need a lot of mobility and flexibility. But also, I’m not about to run around in nothing but my underwear.”

June pouts. “You shy?”

“Afraid of stopping traffic,” Maks says, which makes her laugh, which makes him smile.

“Any other restrictions?” June asks, wrapping her tape around one wrist.

Maks makes a face. “Make me a shirt that covers my nips without making me feel like a cheap Aladdin knockoff?”

“Done,” June says with a smile. “Also, when’s your first show?”

“Eleven-thirty,” Maks says.

June’s smile turns distinctly predatory. “Good. You can help me get dressed and you probably won’t be late.”

“I have an hour and fifteen minutes,” Maks says. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve never dressed a Tudor lady before,” June says. “We take _time_.”

 

She is not exaggerating.

 

By eleven, she’s finally laced and pinned and painted and adorned and Maks has found a whole new level of respect for her work. “Told you,” June says, slightly adjusting the angle of the French hood sitting atop her head today- because of course, she’s in an entirely different gown today, this one made of three different shades of blue linen interwoven together in fabric manipulation she termed “aggressively time-consuming but soooooo worth it”.

“I will never doubt you again,” Maks promises.

“Don’t lie,” June says, tilting her head at her mirror. “Also, you’d better run or you’ll be late for your show.”

“Damn,” Maks says, and bolts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a Renaissance festival AU. No, I am not kidding. Why? I've worked at a Renaissance festival for seven years, and I saw a prompt go by probably three years ago that was like "take your favorite fandom to work with you!" I've wanted to make a Rennie AU ever since, and since Maks is an aerialist and June is literally a costumer, uh... here we are.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! I've got the rest of the story written, just need to edit, so there will be regular updates and the completed fic will be up soon! I'm expecting it to clock in somewhere around 15000 words.


	2. Chapter 2

 

At the end of the day, he has to psych himself up before he can make his way over to June and Ernest’s campsite. As he’s striking his silks and packing away his equipment, he’s thinking about it. He’s a transient, traveling performer, hired by the festival to work for the season and then he’ll be in the wind, off to the next faire willing to put aerial silks, which are not really Renaissance-y at all, in their Renaissance festivals. Meanwhile, Ernest and June are employed by this faire and this faire specifically, and they actually know things about the era outside of the big-picture basics and random factoids Maks has managed to pick up, and basically, he’s not like them in any way and utterly unworthy of their attention but Ernest _smiled at him_ so there’s basically no way he’s not going to their campsite and also no way he’s not going to stress about it.

“I can do this,” Maks says as he walks slowly (he’s exhausted) towards the campsite. “I can totally do this.”

Night has completely fallen by the time he arrives at their corner of the campsite. All the street cast spend the nights there during performance weekends, as do most of the traveling entertainers. Still, each group tends to stick to their own section, so Maks has ever been this deep in street cast territory before.

He comes across a small throng of people standing around a fire pit with their phone flashlights illuminating Ernest, fiddling with some flint.

“Just let me use my lighter,” June says.

“I can do this,” Ernest insists. “It’s authentic.”

“The gates are shut, and I am hungry, and I cannot eat until there’s a fire, and I have a lighter on me at all times to seal the ends of ribbons, and if you don’t let me use it I will set _you_ on fire,” June growls.

Ernest takes three quick steps back. “Yes, ma’am.”

In no time, June’s built up a roaring fire, and the small throng has settled down. Maks clears his throat, and when everyone looks to him, he waves. “Hi, I’m Maksim Mikhailovitch Petrov, but you can call me Maks. Mind if I sit?”

“About time you got here,” June says with a sniff. “Everyone, this is Maks. Maks, everyone.”

A girl with a wild ginger pixie cut bounds over to him. “I think I recognize you- you’re one of the aerialists, right? I’m Zip, I’m the stage manager.”

“Yeah, I remember you,” Maks says. “I hardly recognize you without your clipboard.”

Zip giggles. “Look, I keep the place running on time, I have to be everywhere at once and I’d be falling apart without it. Anyway, that there is Mal, he’s the fight choreographer and the grumpiest guy you’ll ever meet.” The surly-looking Mal gives him the slightest nod. “Beside him is Rosario and Jack- Roz is one of the best swordswomen in the circuit, and Jack works with our historical education people, you know, making this place all Renaissance-y.”

“That’s not a word,” Mal objects.

Roz smacks him upside the head.

Ernest shows his dimples. “I think that was an unapproved fight, Rosario. Mal’s going to throw you out now.”

“He can fight me for it,” Roz says, whipping out her sword. Maks hadn’t even noticed it there- everyone’s dressed down for the evening, so Roz is in a tank top emblazoned with the festival logo and jean shorts, but she has accessorized with a leather belt and sword. “En garde, fuckboy!”

“Rosario,” Zip says, very nicely. “Please don’t make me kill you.”

Maks leaves them to their argument and sits himself down beside June. “It’s weird to see you in normal clothes,” he says.

“It’s weird to be in them,” June says. She leans back, crossing her ankles as she stretches. Everyone else is in something comfortable after the long day of work- Maks himself is in some old gym shorts and a loose T-shirt- but June is in an immaculately tailored sundress and gladiator sandals, hair in a neat bun and makeup impeccable. “I almost miss the corset.”

“But when you’re in a corset, I can’t do- _this_!” Ernest leans over from behind June and locks his arms around her waist to sweep her up in the air and around in a circle. “Whee!”

“Put me down!” June says, but she’s smiling and running her hands up and down his forearms.

One thing Maks has noticed, in the circuit- the swordsmen have _impeccable_ forearms. Cannot be pecc’d.

“Everyone has to eat something real before we do the pole pies,” Zip says. “Owner’s orders.”

Mal frowns slightly. “Mother made no indication of this to me.”

“Because she knew you’d eat properly anyway, but she doesn’t trust these bozos.” Zip points a thumb in the general direction of everyone else. “I got infinite premade sandwiches, plus hot dogs and buns if you’re into that sort of thing, and chips.”

“Just give the chips to me, sunshine,” June says with a smile.

Zip tosses them her way, warning, “The Queen probably won’t consider that real food,” then starts chowing down on sandwiches.

“Damn, girl,” Maks says. “Where are you putting that? You’re tiny!”

“She has the most difficult job on the site,” Mal says, somehow still managing to look posh and prim as he skewers a hot dog on a stick. “She oversees nine formal stages with fifty-three separate entertainer groups in addition to the street scenes performed throughout the site by our five different performance guilds.”

June nods sagely. “The only person I’ve approved to wear _tennis shoes_ on site.” She says ‘tennis shoes’ the way Maks might say ‘zippers’ or a normal person might say ‘Renaissance festival’.

Zip looks at Maks with bright, manic eyes. “I’ve been running, all day, uphill.”

“Both ways,” Rosario says with a smile. “Right? Uphill, in the snow, both ways?”

Zip holds up her sandwich. “If I wasn’t so ravenous, I’d throw this at you.”

“Your douchebag boyfriend was here today,” June says, crunching a chip almost delicately.

“He’s not a douchebag,” Rosario replies almost in a sing-song, like this conversation’s been repeated enough times to become rote. “He’s just difficult.”

“Hanging around Ken and Ida.” June shakes her head. “Douchebag.”

Ida. Maks knows that name. “Why do I know Ida?” Maks asks.

Everyone around the table groans and facepalms a little. Ernest looks up from the cooler he’s rooting around in and says, “Ida Mae Sullivan is our entertainment director. She should be the one making sure you know where your stages are and taking care of any complaints. The fact that you don’t know her means she isn’t doing her job.”

“Situation normal,” June mutters.

“She makes Zipporah work twice as hard,” Mal says. “It’s inefficient and unfair.”

Maks would pursue the drama, because gossip is fun, but then Ernest settles down on his other side so Maks is now sandwiched between two distractingly beautiful people. “Did you have a good day?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Maks says. “Had a good couple of shows. Although, my most difficult task was helping the lady get dressed.”

“If you’re going to survive the festival circuit, you have to know how to lace a girl into a bodice without crying,” June says unrepentantly. “I did you a favor.”

Ernest beams. “Hey, do you have a show at one o’clock?”

“No,” Maks says.

“You should come to the nobles’ joust, then,” Ernest says. “I’m fighting, June’s in the stands with the rest of the court cast. It’ll be fun.”

“Don’t mind a humble entertainer cramping your style?” Maks asks.

June flaps a hand. “You’re one of us now. After all, you’re about to eat a pole pie. Those who eat pole pies are initiated into the Inner Circle of the faire leadership. I mean, four of us are in managerial positions.”

Maks ticks on his fingers. June’s the costumer, Zip’s stage manager, Mal is fight director…

“I run the joust show,” Ernest says, pulling up Maks’s fourth finger. Maks refuses to allow himself to be distracted by the feel of Ernest’s hands on his.

“And by that, he means I run the joust show and he conveys my orders, but I don’t have the official position because The Queen would like me to _focus my energies_ , at least until I don’t have to bully the cast on the daily to keep their goddamn hats on,” June says. “But joke’s on her, the joust show is amazing, our costumes are perfect, and I am… _super magnificent_.”

Maks’s heart genuinely skips a beat. He should get that checked out. “I have no doubt,” he says. Keep it light, Maks, keep it breezy! “Now,” he says, clapping his hands together. “I’m hearing a lot of talk about pole pie, but for the uninitiated, what the hell is that?”

“Ernest,” Zip says. “You take this one. It’s your dad’s invention, after all.”

He solemnly sticks out a hand. (Goddamn, but the arm muscles on swordsmen. Good goddamn.) Zip, equally solemnly, slaps an unidentifiable tube into it. “This is pie crust,” Ernest says. “You’re going to drape it over your stick, like so-“ he demonstrates- “And hold it here until it cooks.”

“Then,” June says. “My favorite part. Fill it with jam and whipped cream and eat it and then immediately cry, because you’ve been in a corset all day and are dreaming of real, substantial food.” She blinks. “Or maybe that’s just me.”

“This is horrifying,” Maks says. “I need four.”

Ernest beams. “Coming right up.”

There is a moment of companionable not-quite-silence, with the fire crackling and distant bagpipes blaring over the treetops and everyone eating either real food or pole pie. “Zip,” June says eventually, licking jam off her finger in an act of such utter sensuousness Maks almost cannot breathe, “You still have a crush on Cindy?”

Zip’s face turns the color of her curls, which seems to suggest _yes_. “No.”

“Bummer,” June says, licking more jam. Maks _cannot breathe_. “Because I’m in charge of her costume, so I can _confirm_ the inside of her bodice is some Pride rainbow fabric, _and_ I overheard her telling Ofelia while they were lacing each other up that her type was ginger and bossy.”

Zip freezes, staring at June’s face like she’d never seen it before. “She what?”

Mal pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “Juniper is implying that Cindy reciprocates your feelings, Zipporah.”

“Yikes, the full names are out,” Roz says. “Watch out, everyone.”

Zip jumps to her feet, brushing crumbs off her pants. “I need to go, right now, immediately,” she says, bolting away from the campfire.

“She camps with the rest of her clan, by Jenny’s RV!” June shouts after her. Zip is long gone before she makes it to the end of the sentence. “Eh, she’ll find her eventually.”

“Out of curiosity, how long have you been sitting on that?” Roz asks.

June shrugs. “Two weekends? I was hoping Zip would woman up and kiss the girl, but-“

Roz stops listening, turning to Jack beside her with her hand outstretched. “Pay up, grandpa,” she says.

Jack, shaking his head, puts a dollar bill in Roz’s hand. “I shoulda known it was a sucker bet,” he says.

“Coulda told you that, Daddy Long-Legs,” Roz says.

A burst of laughter escapes Maks, and everyone turns to look at him. Welp, might as well go for broke. Maks _dissolves_ into laughter, sinking to the ground because- “Daddy?” he gasps.

Jack looks up at the sky. “I hate you, Rosario.”

“Bullshit,” Roz says.

“As for you, Maks,” Jack says. “I got the nickname because I kept pickin’ those spiders out of our tents. It doesn’t mean- no one says it like _that_.”

Roz cackles. “Not to your face.”

“Rosario,” Jack says.

“I know, I know, I’m not helping,” Roz says.

Ernest claps Maks on the shoulder, helping him get back to his seat. “Can we at least pretend to be cool for the new guy?” Ernest asks.

“We are cool,” June says. “We’re eating straight sugar around a campfire a couple hundred yards from a Renaissance festival. Name one part of that which isn’t cool.”

Mal frowns. “I believe all of it.”

“You’re a stick in the mud, you know that, right, Mal?” Roz says.

“You really want us to have an unscheduled fight tomorrow, don’t you,” Mal says.

Roz smiles. “I’m always ready.”

“You’ll get in trouble,” Ernest says.

Roz points at Mal. “He’s in charge of enforcing the rule, so if _he_ breaks it-“

“Zip will report him,” Ernest says. “Or somebody, I don’t know. Jack? Do you have any authority to report people?”

Jack just sort of looks at him. June sighs and says, “I’ll tattle to his mama if it makes you feel better, Ernest.”

“She runs the place,” Ernest explains in Maks’s ear. “Mal’s mom, I mean.”

“Buzzkill,” Rosario says to June, over Mal muttering, “She’ll understand if Rosario _asks_ for it.”

Ernest leans away just far enough for Maks to see his sheepish smile. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

Maks beams. “ _Hell_ yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about how regularly I'll be updating, by the way- every couple of days or so.


	3. Chapter 3

Somehow, Maks falls into a rhythm with June and Ernest and the rest of their circle of quasi-leaders. None of them make massive managerial decisions- “Thank God!” Zip says with a bright laugh- but all of them have some kind of official or unofficial role. During the day, he always sees various underlings approach them to ask questions or run decisions by them or whatnot. Sometimes, said underlings even visit the campfire, bashful and awkward about interrupting the People In Charge on their time off. Every interaction between the group and the rest of the fair shows just how influential they are, how well-liked and well-respected they are, how critical they are to this festival’s well-being in every way, shape, and form.

And then there’s Maks.

He tries not to feel uncomfortable about that.

 

Maks is the last performer at his stage on the third week of the run- a six o’clock show, with the closing gate at seven. It’s always his best, the dying light making every bit of his performance that much better, almost magic. He has a decent crowd today too, and nails even the trickiest bits he sometimes wobbles on. He gets back to the ground and takes his bow with a warm rush of pride.

The crowd disperses as Maks starts picking up his equipment- he trusts no one else with the silks that let him earn a living in this odd and wonderful circuit. However, he maintains a basic awareness of his surroundings, so when he feels the prickle of someone staring at him on the back of his neck, he turns around to see Ernest and June.

Together.

He swallows the pang of aching wanting in his throat and puts on a smile, bounding over to them. “Hey, you guys,” he says, trying to ignore the fact that June’s palm was twisted upright- a lover’s handhold, not an escort’s- and the way they looked like a perfect Renaissance portrait come to life. “Did you catch my show?”

There’s quiet for a moment, but then Ernest’s Adam’s apple bobs and he says, “Yeah,” voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat, then says, “Yeah. Yes. We saw your show. It was good.” June elbows him.

“The light’s good here,” Maks says, looking out at the setting sun. “Makes it look kind of-"

“Ethereal,” Ernest says. “Like you’re a fairy or something.”

Maks smirks. “Was that a gay joke, Ernest? If so, I approve.”

Ernest flushes redder than June’s dress and lets his girl take over. “You’re in the air, sparkling, and vaguely unreal-looking,” June says. “What are we supposed to call that?”

“No, it’s fair,” Maks says.

“That’s a horrible pun,” June says.

Maks cackles. “Didn’t even mean it like that. How was the last joust of the day?”

Ernest clears his throat. “I, uh, I got second that time. We throw it enough that the Black Knight always loses, but other than that…”

“Have you ever been knocked off your horse?” Maks asks.

Ernest smiles. “Once, but Mal cheats.”

“How?” Maks asks.

June jumps in, overeager to share the story. “Mal wasn’t on a horse and he used a war hammer.”

“I was not prepared for that,” Ernest says, “But it was a melee fight, so, you know. I should have been.”

“Mal is, uh,” Maks says, but stops himself because Mal is at least theoretically their friend and he doesn’t want to offend.

“Kind of a dick,” June concludes. “Yeah. He got yelled at by just about everyone for it, including his mom, but it was awesome, so no regrets. Anyway. We came over here for a reason, I promise- I have a costume for you, if you want to try it on.”

Maks plucks uncomfortably at the waistcoat. He is utterly sick to death of looking like a low-budget Aladdin. “Yes, please,” he says.

June extends her other hand, an imperious nonverbal command that he can’t help but obey. The silks are mostly packed away, and Zip’s army of volunteers will keep anyone from touching his shit anyway. He places the back of his hand beneath June’s palm, doing his best to approximate an Elizabethan nobleman despite standing on the right side of her (as Ernest was on her left, where a man should stand).

“A man on each arm,” June says with a happy sigh as they begin to process down the road. “A girl could get used to this.”

Her fingers curl around his forefinger until he can feel her fingertips against his palm, which makes him almost jump out of his skin. He looks sidelong at Ernest, feeling inexplicably like he’s doing something wrong. They’re both fully dressed and it is literally just that her fingertips are edging against the palm of his hand, but he couldn’t have felt guiltier if they were naked in bed together.

Ernest catches his eye and smiles. “I’m always, uh, always happy to share.”

They can’t mean what Maks thinks they mean. It’s just Maks’s wishful thinking that’s making him imagine romantic subtexts to that, like they’d _actually_ be inviting him to join them in their relationship. Even here, where many interpersonal relationships veer as far from societal norms as possible, he can’t just assume that someone is polyamorous, and interested in him, and same-sex attracted, all at once. That would just be _greedy_.

“I’m crazy excited about this new costume,” Maks says, changing the subject to try and spare himself some future pain and heartache. “Will it be illegal for me to take it with me when I move on to the next faire?”

“Yes,” June says without hesitation. “We’re keeping you.”

Maks shoots a panicked look at Ernest, who immediately corrects, “No, of course you can take it with you. It’s a present.”

“No, we voted to keep Maks,” June said. “You were there. Remember that? After he went to bed last night, we all voted, and we decided we were going to lock him in the shed during the off-season so he couldn’t leave us. You voted in favor, I remember.”

Ernest blushes a deep scarlet. “I didn’t mean- I just, Maks, we like you, we like having you around, like, you’re good company, we’re not going to- we’re not creepy, I swear-“

Maks bursts into laughter and June joins him. “How long do you think he can keep rambling like that?” he asks June.

“Oh, so long,” June says. “Our boy is a hot mess.”

“It’s kinda cute,” Maks says, and then immediately regrets it, because this is not flirting, he cannot read flirting into these nice semi-normal friendships, he cannot-

“It’s _definitely_ cute,” June replies, then lifts Ernest’s hand to her lips, leaving a cherry-red print on the back of his hand.

Her fingers curl even more around his hand, all four fingertips sending sparks into his bloodstream from the palm of his hand.

Maks is going to hell.

It’s only after they reach the costume shop that Maks, belatedly, realizes the festival day isn’t actually over for another half-hour. “Don’t you guys have to be on site until gate?” he asks, the circuit’s lingo still new and awkward on his lips.

“I’m me, so I get to do whatever the hell I want,” June says.

“She has permission to enter and exit the site as needed to make sure everyone is appropriately costumed,” Ernest says, “And I’m only responsible for being onsite during the joust shows. Less of a time commitment than the street cast, although even they have shifts. They have to rest at some point, you know.”

June trots to the back of the shop, bearing still as regal as it was when her audience was the entire festival, not just the two of them. “It’s still just a rough draft, so to speak,” she says, “But I think you’ll like it. Come on, strip.”

Ernest settles himself on June’s table, next to some piles of fabric, one of which was probably his costume. When Maks’s gaze settles on him for a second- he’s not entirely sure why Ernest is present for this, but he’s not about to complain- the man hastily begins undoing his boots.

Maks shrugs and strips down to his underwear. Ernest’s hands still on his boots.

“Okay, so I left the booty shorts as a concept,” June says, plunging her hand into a pile of fabric and coming out with something shimmering green and blue. “In that your legs are ripped and also most faires are hot as balls, but you kept complaining about the waistcoat’s cut, specifically, so I thought, maybe, sleeves.”

Maks pulls on the navy blue shorts himself- they’re pretty straightforward, fabric stretchy and flexible like workout pants. “I bought polyester for you,” June says. “It hurt me.”

“They fit well,” Maks says, twisting in front of a mirror. He’s relatively stocky for his height- all muscle, of course, but most people expect people his height to be twinky as hell, when he is in fact the buffest noodle he’s ever met in his life. June managed to make shorts that were simultaneously tight and the correct length, which honestly sounds fake even as he thinks it.

“I thought about putting a word on your ass in sequins, but then I’d have to set myself on fire, and also I couldn’t pick which word,” June said. “Now, the shirt. You’re going to need help with the shirt, but beauty is pain. Arms up.”

First on him is a tank top, close-fitting, not complicated at first glance but then he notices the embroidery on it. “How long did this take you?” he asks June, running a reverent finger over the careful loops of black thread covering the bright green and blue fabric.

“Embroidery is fun for me,” June says, which isn’t an answer. “Now, in a hot faire, like ours in August or any of the southern ones, you can leave it like this. But, if you feel like being a little more covered up, like for October, I have sleeves. Ernest, get his other side?”

Oh, so that’s why Ernest hung around. Maks sticks out his arms again and each of them works a sleeve up to his shoulder. A loop of fabric falls naturally between his thumb and forefinger, something to keep his sleeves in place as he works with his silks. June attaches the hook-and-bars attaching sleeve to shoulder together with brisk, efficient movements, but Ernest’s swordsman’s fingers aren’t so nimble.

Laughing slightly, he says, “June, a little help?”

The two of them bow their heads over Maks’s shoulder, and he gets a little giddy with the attention, their fingers separated from his skin by only a thin layer of sheer fabric- fabric which, he remembers, June had also worked on, carefully adding beauty and intricacy with each loop of the embroidery silks. His head swims.

“Damn, I’m good,” June says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “I mean, come on. Goddamn.”

Ernest swallows hard, looking at the mirror. Maks follows his gaze and-

Well.

It’s professional-grade, no doubt about it. June apparently ran with her color scheme, decking his torso in stretchy, shimmery blue and green. The sleeves are works of art in their own right, stylized patterns of feathers in blackwork crawling up from his fingertips to his shoulder. The embroidery on his torso- and, when he twisted to check, his back- was undeniably the eye of a peacock feather.

“Peacock?” Maks asks, running a finger over the threadwork.

“You preen enough to be one,” June replies.

Ernest smiles. “June thought the color scheme would work for you, and it would make you memorable. She’s all about expressing character through costume and you’re- you know.”

“A peacock,” Maks says.

June smiles. “If the shoe fits.”

It’s so pretty- the prettiest thing he’s ever owned- so he can’t not hug her. He’s not positive she can feel it, given the number of layers between them, but it’s the thought that counts. And, as she wraps her arms around him in return, he counts it as a win.

 

The thing is, everyone even tangentially involved in the Renaissance festival circuit is extra as hell, and on a completely unrelated note, a lot of them are queer.

Zip and Cindy he found out about that first night he hung out with June and Ernest’s crew- obviously WLW. Jack- “Daddy” Long Legs, Maks will never get over that- mentions his “old friend” Newt way too often for them to just be friends. Mal is _obviously_ ace. Rosario wore a bi pride T-shirt once. Their circle is a very queer space, and so it’s entirely possible that June and Ernest are queer, but also, Maks is 80% sure they’re dating each other, which is a very heterosexual thing to do. Of course, assuming that someone is straight just because they’re actively dating a person of a different gender than themselves is biphobic and Maks is bi so he’s not about to be biphobic, but, still. He’s working with the evidence he has. It’s shitty evidence, but it’s all he’s got, unless he actually asks them directly what their orientation is.

He should ask, but if he had healthy interpersonal communication skills, he wouldn’t be working at a Renn faire. Instead, he resigns himself to having two unreciprocated crushes at once and forces himself to be happy being around two friends as great as Ernest and June.

And then the attack happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha ha cliffhanger
> 
> Also, about the hand-holding thing: when you spend a lot of time at Renn faires, around people pretending it is the 1500s, you start to think like an Elizabethan courtier. I've literally felt uncomfortable when a man kissed his hand before presenting it to me in a dance. You start to regard as intimate what the Elizabethans considered intimate. And nothing excited the 'bethans quite so much as hand-holding. Holy shit, palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. That is some RAUNCHY CONTENT. That's why Maks is reacting so strongly to the hand-holding- in the language of a Renn faire, June is basically kissing him. It's SEXY AF... to a Rennie who ships this ot3 with the fire of a thousand suns.


	4. Chapter 4

A woman named Ida Mae Sullivan is nominally in charge of the entertainers. The hierarchy of directors and managers at this festival is complex and labyrinthine, but Maks is 92% sure Ida Mae is in charge of him. She’s the one who gave him the times and spaces he was scheduled to perform at, anyway, and he was told she’d be checking on him regularly throughout the run, but that hasn’t really happened. He got his schedule via email and saw her face once in the morning meeting on opening day, but that’s it.

Most of the time he’s seen her around, she’s been hanging out with these guys. One of them is big and ginger, which he thinks is her boyfriend, and other is this tall, dark, and handsome guy. The boyfriend is named Kenneth and the other guy is Clay, he discovers through the entertainer gossip network, who he thinks is technically dating Rosario but he mostly just sees Clay hanging around Ida Mae and Kenneth.

They are undeniably both douchebags, the kind that wander around Renaissance festivals shirtless with a prominent codpiece, utterly sloshed on beer by noon. Maks knows this type well. Unrelenting homophobes, the lot of them.

So, he’s kept well clear of Kenneth and Clay. No sir, no thank you. None of that bullshit for him today, please.

However, he really wants to talk to Ida Mae. He wants to know what the rules are for playing with the cast. He knows he was hired on as a stage entertainer, and that the entertainers and the street cast are two completely different groups of people with completely different sets of rules, but he wants to run around and play with June and Ernest all day instead of sitting backstage pretending to check a text on his phone and hydrating.

“Hey, uh, Ida?” Maks says, tapping her on the shoulder after he’d cornered her away from her boyfriend and his douchey friend. “Ida?”

She spins around. “Yeah? Who are you?”

“Maks,” he says. When that garners absolutely no recognition, he elaborates, “Maksim Mikhailovitch Petrov.” Still nothing. “I work on the aerial silks? Three times a day, at the Globe, and then once at the Woodland Stage?”

“What do you want?” she asks.

He’s still not entirely convinced she knows who he is. “What are the rules about hanging out with the street cast?”

“Do I look like I care about the street cast?” Ida says. “Make your marks, don’t do anything that would embarrass the festival.” She brushes past him and hurries off deeper into the site.

He didn’t want to think this even to himself, before now, but Ida Mae herself might also be a douchebag, like her friends.

“Hey, Maks!” Ernest calls, jogging up beside him. “What’s up with Ida Mae?”

“Does she hate me, or is she just really terrible at her job?” Maks asks.

Ernest smiles. “Ida Mae’s not _terrible_ at her job, she’s just not… she might not necessarily… sometimes she has trouble, you know, communicating with our entertainers in a helpful and productive way.”

“Her job is to communicate with us in a helpful and productive way,” Maks says.

“And she’s gotten better,” Ernest says.

“This is better?”

Ernest deflates. “Yeah, she can be a bit of a nightmare. But she’s one of us, you know?”

Maks does not, in fact, know. “I mean, I guess,” he says.

“What did you need from her? Maybe I can help,” Ernest says, looking at him with those giant blue eyes.

Fuck it. Ask forgiveness, not permission, right? “I think I figured it out on my own,” Maks says. “Do you mind if I start coming to more jousts?”

Ernest’s face almost breaks in half with the force of his grin. “Yeah! That’d be amazing! You _have_ to come- I mean, not have to have to, just if you have the time, if you’re not too busy-“

“I’m really not,” Maks says. “And besides. I like hanging out with you and June.”

Ernest smiles. “We like hanging out with you too, Maks.”

They stand there smiling at each other like idiots for a long moment, then Ernest checks his pocket watch. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go to make the three-thirty joust.” He reaches out and grabs Maks’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “See you at closing gate?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Maks says with a smile.

They stare at each other, grinning stupidly, for another second or two before Ernest blushes bright crimson and runs off.

Maks shakes his head, smiling, and turns around, back towards his stage.

Right into Kenneth.

“Hey,” Maks says, not entirely sure that Kenneth knows who he is. He takes a step sideways to get around the other guy, but is stopped with a hand on his shoulder.

Kenneth does not look friendly. “The hell were you saying to my girl?”

“Your- Ida, you mean?” Maks asks. “She’s the entertainment director, I’m an entertainer, I was getting direction. You know. How festivals are supposed to work.”

Kenneth takes another step closer, right up into Maks’s space. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you, faggot?”

“Whoa, dude, you can’t say that-“ is all Maks remembers saying before something hits him hard on the back and he blacks out.

 

June knows something is wrong the second she sees that Maks’s silks aren’t up at five-forty-five. Maks has to take them down after his two-thirty show for a circus act that uses the same stage from three to four, but then sometime between four and his scheduled six o’clock showtime, he always puts the silks up. She’s seen him make it a bit in someone else’s act, even- a couple of Shakespeare parodists let him set up during their show and called him Ariel (as in, from the Tempest) the whole time.

But he’s on in fifteen minutes and his silks aren’t set up.

June goes backstage. He’s not there.

She picks up the radio and turns it to the leadership frequency. “Hey, Ida Mae, where are you?” she asks.

No response.

“Ida Mae?”

God damn it, Sullivan.

“Zip, you there?”

“Yeah, June, what’s up?” Zip asks. Zip has her own radio permanently attached to her belt- Zip is always there. If Zip’s not there, June has bigger problems to worry about, like the imminent collapse of human civilization.

“I don’t see Maks anywhere but he has a show here in fifteen. He’s never late. Have you seen him?”

There’s a staticky buzz, like Zip is humming as she thinks. “Not lately, sorry,” Zip says. “I’ll keep an eye out for him or Ida. Where’s he supposed to be?”

“The Globe, I’m there now, but I won’t be for long. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I’ll tell my army to keep their eyes peeled, but June, you know this is a big site, and besides, he might just be running late. I’ll start looking myself, but-“

“I know it’s probably nothing, but,” June says. “I’m going to look too.”

The line clicks dead, and June puts the radio back in its place backstage. Then she goes out to the Globe, takes a deep breath, and starts working through the faire site in a spiral pattern, peeking behind vendors’ tents and in backstage places, anywhere out of the way. The obvious places are too obvious. June doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, but she has a bad feeling about this, and she trusts her gut.

She ducks backstage after ten minutes of hunting to check in with Zip again. “Zip, it’s June, you seen him?”

“No, I’m at the Globe now,” Zip replies. “No sign of him.”

“I officially think something really bad has happened,” June says.

“Hang on, I just remembered something,” Zip says. “One of my volunteers saw a redheaded man carrying a guy matching Maks’s description earlier today- I thought it wasn’t a big deal, she said they were heading in the general direction of one of our first-aid tents, and you know how many stupid drunk people there are here.”

June’s heart jumps into her throat. “Can you- can you look, please-“

“I got it, June,” Zip says. “You sit down and stay on the line. I’ll find him. You know I’m faster than you, anyway.”

For two minutes, June waits backstage, radio clutched in her trembling hands.

The radio crackles to life, but Zip isn’t talking to June. “Mayday, mayday, I’m behind Son of Sandlar’s shop, requesting immediate first aid and likely an ambulance, Maks Petrov, one of our entertainers, he’s unconscious, bleeding from the head, looks like he got beaten with something? I can’t wake him up, but his pulse is strong.”

June thinks that she should probably be crying or something, but instead she feels icy cold. Rage? Fear? A potent and terrifying mix of the two?

She needs Ernest. She needs Ernest, and they need to go to wherever Maks is, and they need to make sure he’s okay.

 

“Hey, man, did you hear about the entertainer guy?” the one of the other knights asks, as they’re stripping out of their heavy plate armor in the stables.

Ernest frowns, shaking his head. “No, hear what?”

“One of the entertainer guys got the shit beaten out of him or something. They had to call an ambulance,” the other knight says. “It was really fucked up.”

“That’s so terrible,” Ernest says. “Did you hear who it was?”

The other knight shrugs. “Sorry, man. I just overheard it on the radio before I came out.”

God. When Ernest sees Maks later, he’s going to have to give him a hug. The entertainers all hang out together on their downtime, before, during, and after the faire day- Maks probably knows whoever got hurt. That must be terrible.

Ernest mostly dresses down- keeping the chemise and trousers but ditching all the armor- then goes out front to the joust arena, and is surprised to see June standing there waiting for him.

He knows something is wrong the second he sees her, because she’s dressed all the way down to the running shorts she wears under her dress, plus an oversize festival T-shirt. It’s weird, seeing June in those clothes from the neck down but still made-up for the day from the neck up. “Maks got hurt,” June says. “I need you to drive me to the hospital.”

It takes him a second to put the pieces together.

“Oh my God, _Maks_ is the one who got hurt?” Ernest says. “Yes. Let me- I need my keys, and then we need to- Amira, or-“

“I told Mal,” June says. “That’s close enough. I’m not asking permission, Ernest. We’re going.”

“Yes,” Ernest says. “Of course.”

June points. “Keys.”

“Yes,” Ernest says again, and takes off running.


	5. Chapter 5

June isn’t really _present_ for most of the ride to the hospital, so she thanks a God she isn’t entirely positive she believes in that Ernest took the wheel. She remembers mechanically reading the GPS instructions to him. She remembers trees and fields flying by the window as they hurtle down the country road at a speed that’s probably more than a little reckless. She remembers Ernest’s hand in hers, his thumb gently tracing circles on her knuckles.

Their relationship is as new to the world as Maks is to the festival, but already June can’t imagine doing this without Ernest.

He parks the car and tugs her out of it, in towards the hospital, but she doesn’t quite check back in with reality until she hears Ernest trying to argue. He’s about as good at it as a Chihuahua is at being physically intimidating.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but if you’re not family you can’t visit, it’s policy,” the receptionist says.

June snaps her head towards the receptionist with a laser focus she normally gives only to people who can’t tell medieval-era things from Renaissance-era things or the poor fools try to wear comically oversize Henrician French hoods at their good Elizabethan festival. “We are representatives of the Renaissance festival up the road,” June says, which almost isn’t a lie, “And as Mr. Petrov was injured while on our grounds, we are invested in his recovery. We need to see him for insurance purposes.”

The receptionist looks between the two of them. With a sigh, she says in an undertone, “Tell me you’re his cousin.”

“What?” Ernest says.

“Additionally, I am his beloved cousin Juniper Petrov, so-“

The woman’s fingers are already flying over the keyboard. “He’s still being checked out by a doctor. That’s a good thing-“ she quickly reassures them- “If it’s taking a while, it means he wasn’t too badly hurt. I can give you the room number, and you can go in when the doctor’s finished with him.”

Ernest smiles at her. “Thank you. We really are-“

“His cousin and his cousin’s boyfriend,” June finishes smoothly. “I got your back,” she says with a smile at the receptionist.

They get the room number, and then the painful waiting begins.

 

When seven-fifteen or so rolls around- long enough for the cast to make their way backstage after closing gate- the Next Gen Rennies group chat absolutely fucking explodes. Ernest, completely overwhelmed, mutes his and lets June interpret for him.

“Everyone’s worried about Maks,” June says, scrolling through the lines of emoji and exclamation points. “Especially Zip.”

“Tell Zip to go get a hug from Cindy,” Ernest says.

June’s fingers fly. “Done. Roz beat us to it, but hopefully that means Zip actually will seek out comfort. Mal’s explaining where we’ve gone to his mom so she doesn’t think we just bailed. Actually, Amira texted me too, she wants regular updates.”

“She’s so cool,” Ernest says.

June nods absently, because Amira is so cool. Cool enough to quit a lucrative government job to revive a Renaissance festival in her middle age. “I’m telling everyone we don’t have news yet because Maks is still in with a doctor,” she says.

Immediately, reality goes and makes a liar out of her. A harried-looking middle age lady comes out of Maks’s room and can’t help but stare quizzically at June and Ernest.

Well, Ernie is still in his poofy white shirt and Rennie pants, so June can’t exactly blame her. “Hi, hello,” June says. “Are you Maks’s doctor?”

“Yes- are you his emergency contacts?” the doctor asks.

June nods firmly before Ernest can screw the pooch by trying to explain. “Yes. Is he okay? What’s wrong?”

“He’s been pretty badly beaten, but there’s been no life-threatening damage,” the doctor replies. “The biggest priorities have been the broken collarbone and the cracked ribs. Luckily, none of those hit any internal organs. He also has a broken jaw and quite a collection of really bad bruises. I want to keep him overnight for observation and another checkup, but he should be good to go in the morning.”

A muscle jumps in Ernest’s jaw. “So you’re sure he was beaten?”

The doctor makes a face. “I got a pretty good idea of what happened to him while I was checking him over. He was punched in the face, whacked with something like a baseball bat until he fell to the ground, and then kicked repeatedly. That’s the only logical explanation for those injuries.”

Someday soon, June is going to figure out who is responsible for this, and she is going to kill them.

“Can we go in and see him?” Ernest says.

“Yes,” the doctor replies. “Just- be careful. We gave him the good stuff so he’s out like a light, but your friend is likely still in a lot of pain, and it’s entirely possible I missed some fractures with all the bruising- that’s one of the reasons I want to keep him overnight.”

June nods and bursts in through the door while Ernest thanks the nice doctor.

It’s _wrong_ , seeing Maks so still.

He’s in a hospital gown with the costume she made for him folded at his feet, which somehow makes the whole thing worse. She stayed up late working on the embroidery, perfecting the design so Maks could feel as beautiful as he looked on his silks. She’d made that with love, so he could be admired for all his finesse, and now it’s caked in dust and covered in blood.

Ernest puts his hand on hers, where she’s clutching the fabric too tight. “Don’t worry about that now,” he says.

“If I look at this I’m not looking at him,” June says. “And I can replace this.”

Ernest squeezes her hand. “I know,” he replies, then sits down by Maks’s bedside. He carefully collects one of the acrobat’s hands in his.

June catches the aborted movement he makes, lifting Maks’s hand slightly like he was going to bring it to his lips.

She sits down on Maks’s other side and holds Maks’s other hand. “We should talk about this,” she says.

“What?”

“You have a crush on Maks,” June says. When Ernest looks up at her and she sees the pain in his eyes, she hurries to add, “And so do I. It’s possible to like two people at once, and I definitely do, and I think you do too.”

Ernest swallows hard- she watches his Adam’s apple bob. His hands wrap around Maks’s so carefully, and June falls that much harder for him, with the utter care he takes with the hands of the boy they both love. He pulls Maks’s hand to his chest and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I- yes.”

June sighs and presses a kiss to the back of Maks’s hand. “We’re going to have to have this conversation again, once he’s awake.”

“I, um-“ Ernest looks at her. “I don’t know how.”

“Me either,” June says. “But we’re rennies. We improvise.”

 

**Next Gen Rennies**

Zip: ok I ran around and asked all the vendors nearby if they saw anything plus one of the musicians who was positioned on a nearby corner and everyone who remembers anything says they saw Maks with a redheaded man and a brunet

Zip: although of course this is renfair we have celts out the wazoo so red hair isn’t exactly a smoking gun

Zip: but roz were you with clay all day?

Rosario: Oh my God it was not Clay or Kenneth

Mal: Answer the question, Rosario.

Rosario: I’m going to kick your ass for real Malek just you wait

Rosario: No Zip I was not with Clay all day because I was working per usual

Rosario: We have a fight show around the time Maks got attacked

Zip: and ken wasnt in the audience

Rosario: tbh I was not looking Zip

Rosario: but I don’t think so

Zip: pls confirm maks talked to sully earlier today

Zip: confirm?????

Ernest <3: Yeah, I came in on the tail end of that conversation. He was asking her something but I don’t think she was very helpful.

Zip: k did ken see that

Ernest <3: I don’t know? Why do you ask?

Zip: ken is a jealous sob if he saw maks&sully he might have motive

Mal: This is not a police drama, Zip.

Jack: Kenneth and Clay were lurking around backstage earlier talking to each other and they seemed real upset about something.

Zip: time

Jack: Three or so?

Zip: fits with my timeline

Mal: Zipporah.

Zip: just saying

Zip: if maks wakes up and says it was ken and clay i deserve a raise

Rosario: IT WAS NOT CLAY OR KENNETH JFC

 

Maks wakes slowly, whatever drugs they’d given him tugging him gently back towards dreamland. Eventually, however, other sensations pulled him out. Aches and pains all over his body. The feeling of being watched, and not in a good way. His hands being held.

He forces his eyes open.

“He’s awake,” Ernest’s voice says, and he feels one of the hands holding his tighten. “Hey, Maks. Take it slow, okay? Take your time.”

Maks swallows a couple of times, then does his best to speak. “Where’m- ow.”

“Yeah, they broke your jaw,” June says. “You’re going to actually have to be quiet for more than a few seconds at a time.” Her teasing voice is gentler than it usually is, and he feels a hand comb through his hair. Likely hers.

“You’re in the hospital, though,” Ernest says. “Do you remember what happened at the faire today?”

Maks takes a deep breath- wow, more pain, thanks- and tries to remember.

He’d finished striking his silks so the stage could be used ahead of his last show of the day, and then he’d walked out, and…

“Kenneth,” he forces out, despite the pain. “Clay.”

One hand releases his. “I’m sending an I-told-you-so into the group chat,” June says. “Zip is going to be insufferable, but this means Roz is finally going to dump Clay and he is _so_ not good enough for her, so. Silver linings and all that.”

“I’m glad to see your eyes open, Maksim,” an unfamiliar voice says. His bed raises up behind him, propping him up to see a smiling nurse. “How are you feeling?”

He tries to make a “yuck” face, but moving his jaw is really not on the agenda for the day, and he whimpers. “He got the shit kicked out of him,” June snaps. “How do you think he’s feeling?”

“If you want to up the pain medication, there’s a button right beside you, Maksim,” the nurse says.

He hits it, and the feeling of relief almost makes him cry. It makes talking not unthinkable. “What’s my damage?” he asks.

The nurse checks his chart. “You are a lucky young man,” she says. “Nothing life-threatening, and with your cracked ribs, it easily could have been. The only things broken are a fracture in your collarbone, one in your jaw, and three cracked ribs. And then, of course, lots of bruising.”

“Recovery?” he asks.

“He probably wants a timeline,” Ernest says. “And next steps. Right, Maks?” Maks nods.

The nurse hums. “The timeline can be a little shifty,” she says. “I’m going to say six weeks for now, but that’s just to heal, that’s not counting physical therapy or-“

She cuts off when Maks starts laughing. Ernest holds Maks’s hand tight with both of his. “What’s wrong?”

Maks can’t stop laughing, even though it’s causing pain every time the muscles contract around his ribs. “That’s it for me,” Maks says.

“What the hell do you mean by that?” June asks, looking up from her phone, which is buzzing furiously, presumably from the group chat she mentioned.

Maks walls off the pieces of his heart that are breaking. “I can’t perform like this,” he says. “I’ll have to go.” Go where? He’s not exactly sure. But if he can’t perform, he can’t make money here, so no matter how much his heart wants to stay and make pole pies and watch Ernest joust and lace June into her dresses, he can’t.

He hits the pain button again and everything goes fuzzy.


	6. Chapter 6

“I just want to say, it was Clay,” Zip says.

Rosario takes a long swig from her beer. “Yeah, I dumped him, shut up.”

Everyone did, in fact, shut up about it. Most of them had been haranguing Roz to leave Clay since essentially the second they got together, but Roz got stubborn about it. She hates being wrong. June knows that however much they’re beating Roz up about her terrible taste in men, she’s beating herself up about it worse.

Ernest, either eager to change the subject on Roz’s behalf or just a sweet boy with a crush, says, “It was weird going through a faire day without Maks.”

“It’s really not the same without his energy around the Globe,” Zip says. “When is he coming back? Both, like, as a friend, and as a stage manager trying to keep something on the Globe at all times.”

Ernest looks at June pleadingly, but she stands her ground. She doesn’t want to be the one to say this. She can’t, actually, not without her voice breaking, and she really doesn’t want to show weakness right now.  

He clears his throat and says, “Um. He, uh. He won’t be coming back.”

“What?” Jack says. “Why?”

“Rosario’s ex beat him up so badly he’ll be in recovery for the rest of the run,” June says.

“Oh my God, I get it, _drop it_.”

Yeah, well, tough shit, Roz, one of the boys June likes is going to be leaving them because of your dumbass boyfriend.

Mal’s scowl etches itself deeper onto his face. “What will he be doing, if he can’t perform?”

Ernest and June exchange another look. They’d asked Maks that question, tentatively, and the look in his eyes as he tried to bluff through a nonanswer made them think even the acrobat didn’t know. Vendors and entertainers move around the circuit on a very precise timetable that does not handle disruption well. Maks missing the tail end of the performances here means he’s also missing auditions for the next batch of festivals, which makes it that much harder for him to get back in the game.

“I’m not sure he knows,” June says.

“Then there’s no reason he can’t come back here,” Mal says.

Zip makes a face. “Except for that pesky fact that he doesn’t have a job.”

“Yeah,” Ernest says. “Why would he even want to come back here, if he can’t perform?”

Everyone is suspiciously quiet, until Zip sighs and says, “This is appropriating useless lesbian culture and I am offended.”

“I’m confused,” Ernest says.

Zip pats him on the head with all the condescension she can muster. “Come on, guys, brainstorm,” she says, returning to her seat. “What can Maks do for us?”

“That pays,” June reminds them.

“That he can do while severely injured,” Ernest says.

There’s another long pause as everyone thinks. Then Rosario says, slowly, “Hey… Zip, you said Kenneth and Clay did this because Maks was trying to talk to Sully, right?”

“That’s what my infallible rumor mill says,” Zip says.

“And Sully is effectively useless, right?” Rosario asks.

Zip nods. “My volunteer army does her job plus our own, because we are-“

“Maks should have her job,” June says. “Oh my God, Roz, that’s perfect! We can throw Ida Mae and her dirtbag boyfriend the hell out of our shire, and we get to keep Maks, _plus_ Zip’s volunteer army could possibly take a break for, like, ten minutes out of the day!”

“Sounds fake, but okay,” Zip says.

June zeroes in on Mal with laser intensity. “Talk your mom into it.”

Mal blinks. “I do not talk my mother into anything. Mother makes the decisions for this festival and I do not interfere.”

“It’s for a good cause,” June says. “A more efficient renn faire. Come on, your mom would love this.”

Mal heaves the most put-upon sigh June has heard him make at anyone but Zip (their friendship confuses June, to be entirely honest, but it’s cute). “I will ask Mother if she wants to play the Moroccan ambassador tomorrow,” he says. “That will give you time to talk to her during the court’s downtime. That is all I will do.”

“Thank you, Malek,” June says. “Zip, hug the grump for me?”

Zip squeals and hugs Mal tight. Mal looks at June like he’s enduring some great hardship, which makes everyone laugh.

Now, all she has to do is talk Amira, the _queen_ of their renaissance festival, into doing what June wants her to do.

… easy enough.

 

Amira rarely dresses up anymore, too busy stamping out the little fires, both figurative and literal, that crop up during the festival day. However, Mal was true to his word and persuaded Amira to leave all that to the other grownups on the site (which, terrifyingly enough, includes Zipporah Chance) long enough to join the court as the visiting ambassador from Morocco.

To be entirely honest, all the courtiers breathe a sigh of relief when Amira dons that role. Then it’s not quite so weird when they all treat her with reverential, deferential respect whenever she comes by.

“Amira,” June says, sitting down next to her. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

Amira arches an eyebrow. “Amira?”

“Yes. Out of character. Dead serious. In sooth, and all that,” June says.

Amira nods. “What is it?”

“I want you to fire Ida Mae Sullivan as our entertainment coordinator and hire Maksim Petrov instead,” June says. It always pays to be direct, bordering on blunt, with Amira.

“Interesting. Why?”

“Everyone knows Sully’s useless,” June says. “Plus, it was her boyfriend that beat up Maks. That ticks her over from ‘useless’ to ‘actively detrimental to the festival as a whole’. So we should get rid of her, and the only reason we haven’t is because we haven’t had anyone willing to take her job. Maks might.”

Amira tilts her head, considering the request. “Why Maks?”

“He knows us,” June says. “The way we do things, he knows us and he likes us. He also knows the entertainment circuit. He speaks their language, because he _is_ an entertainer. Plus, he’s on the bench until his injuries heal up, and he needs the job. I’m pretty sure he’ll say yes.”

Amira considers June for a heart-stutteringly long time. “This has nothing to do with the fact that you sewed the young man very short, very tight pants?”

June is 99% sure her face was a violent crimson, because yes, ulterior motives being what they are, wanting to continue to see Maks’s ass in those shorts was not irrelevant to her pushing this agenda. “If it were just that,” June says, instead of attempting an outright denial that would be a lie, “I wouldn’t have brought it up to you. I think he’d be better than what we have now, so long as you think we’ll survive the midseason upheaval.”

“I like you, June,” Amira says. “And so I will track down Maksim and I will give him an interview. That is all I promise you.”

“Thanks, Amira,” June says. “I mean it. Thanks for hearing me out.”

“I assume this is why my son requested I join court for the day?” Amira asks.

June nods. “I asked him to, and he capitulated, because he’s weak-willed.”

Amira lets out an unladylike snort of laughter, because not a single soul who has ever had the (mis)fortune of meeting Malek Underwood would accuse the boy of being weak-willed. She stands, claps June on the shoulder, and says, “Keep this up and you might just end up in my position someday.”

Then Amira walks away like she didn’t just drop an emotional bomb on June.

“What did you just say?” June says, but Amira keeps walking, so she puts her dialect back on so she can shout, “In sooth, your Excellency? Did I hear you aright?”

No response.

“Jesus Christ,” June says in an undertone. Replacing The Queen someday.

Something to think about. ~~~~

Maks isn’t _surprised_ that no one was there when he’s released from the hospital around noon on a Monday, but he can’t stop himself from being just a little bit disappointed. Somehow, this group of oddballs had become important to him over the past month or so, and he knows they have to work, but still. It would be nice.

He doesn’t immediately recognize the hijabi woman as he walks out of the hospital, because his gut reflex for seeing a pretty middle-aged hijabi woman is to identify her as Amira bint Balqis, and then his second reflex is to scold himself for racism or Islamophobia or something because not all pretty middle-aged hijabi women are Amira bint Balqis. But this time it actually _is_ Queen Amira, so, uh. Does that make him more or less racist?

“Are you Maksim Petrov?” Amira asks.

Maks nods. “Yes, ma’am,” he replies, then winces. Broken jaws are _not_ fun to talk on.

“I am here to give you a ride back to the campsite,” Amira says. “Ernest reminded us you would need a lift back, and most of my people have day jobs they work during the week. Is this acceptable?”

“Yeah- yes, ma’am,” Maks says. “I was going to call a cab, but…” _No money_ , he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. This was his uber-boss.

He packed himself into her car in silence. “Nice car,” he notes, after they get back on the freeway. “Big.”

“We need the space to move larger items on and off the site,” Amira says. “Ernest and June informed me that you won’t be able to participate at our festival for the rest of the run.”

Maks nods and then immediately regrets every life choice. Jaw. Collarbone. _Ouch_. “I can’t be on the silks in all this,” he says. “I’m… I’m really sad to be going.”

“Why do you like our festival?”

“You’re all so friendly,” Maks says. “Like a big family. Sure, your son is grumpy and June’s catty and Roz has terrible taste in men, but when it comes down to it, you know… Ernest and June came with me here. You’re driving me back. No other fair has been quite like this one.”

Amira nods. “Would you like to stay, if the option were available?” she asks.

Maks laughs, which hurts, because ribs. Ouch. “I’d love to,” he says. “But six weeks minimum recovery time. You have five weekends left.”

Amira nods again, then merges lanes. “I believe I am in the market for a new entertainment coordinator. Do you have any managerial experience?”

“Wait, what?” Maks says.

“Do you have any leadership or managerial experience?” Amira asks again.

Shit. Shit. She’s serious. Of course she’s serious, she’s _The Queen_. At most festivals, if people referenced “the queen” offstage amongst themselves, they still meant whatever actress played their queen character, be it one of Henry VIII’s wives or Queen Elizabeth I. At this festival, he learned quick that no one gave their queen actress any special treatment backstage- that was all reserved for The Queen.

So of course she was serious, and of course he wanted the gig, so he’d _better not fuck this up_.

“Some,” Maks says. “The studio I’m associated with, there’s a number of us who run lessons for curious people, mostly girls. I’m the de facto leader of the teaching staff- I’m responsible for learning new tricks and passing them along and whatnot. It’s given me some experience dealing with different personalities and communication styles.”

Amira nods. “The job is yours if you want it.”

“What?”

“Zip assures me you are punctual,” Amira says. “The other entertainers speak of you with great respect, especially those who perform just before or after you. You have some managerial experience. Most importantly, you love our festival for the right reasons. The job is yours.”

“What about Ida Mae?” Maks asks, because he is an idiot and doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.

Amira sighs. “I had hoped Ida Mae would rise to the challenge of being entertainment director, but I believe Kenneth has distracted her and brought her down with him. When I informed her that he was banned from our site, including our campsite overnight, she reacted very badly, and so I fired her.”

No more Ida Mae, and a job for Maks. “Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “Thank you so much.”

The very edges of Amira’s mouth quirk up in a smile. “You are very welcome, Maksim. I cannot have the hero of my joust show and the circuit’s most sought-after costumer in a pout because they miss you. I’m glad you’ll be staying around.”


	7. Chapter 7

June and Ernest meet him at his tent at five-thirty, probably right after they get off work, barely three hours after Amira drops him off. He greets them a little bleary-eyed- being broken really takes it out of him- and checks his watch. “Shouldn’t you all be eating or sleeping or something?” he asks.

“We wanted to let you know something,” Ernest replies, looking sidelong at June.

“The Queen already talked to me, and of course I’m taking the job,” Maks says. “If that’s the question, then-“

“No, no,” Ernest says. “That’s not-“

He looks pleadingly at June. June sighs, shifts her gaze to Maks, and says, “When you were in the hospital, we both admitted out loud that we both have a crush on you. Which, now that I’m saying it out loud, sounds really juvenile, but we thought it would be best to just, you know, get it out in the open- why are you sitting down?”

Maks had indeed sat hard on the top of the cooler outside his tent, which was the most convenient place to sit. He looks between them- neither of whom would look out of place in Renaissance _artwork_ , truly the pinnacle of the male and female forms- and says, “Am I hallucinating right now?”

Ernest immediately kneels by Maks’s side. “What’s wrong? What are you seeing? Is that a side effect of the medication?”

June whips out her phone. “I’m calling Nurse Bliss.”

“You said you both liked me,” Maks says.

“You melodramatic fuck,” June says, pocketing her phone again. “Obviously that wasn’t a hallucination, dumbass, look at how red Ernest is.”

Ernest is indeed a fairly spectacular shade of crimson, but he doesn’t budge from where he kneels by Maks’s side. “That was, uh. That was real.”

“Are you serious?” Maks says.

June arches an eyebrow. “If you’re about to judge the concept of polyamorous relationships, I’m just going to stop you-“

“No, I mean-“ Maks swallows. “Me? Really?”

“Oh my God,” Ernest says, then envelops Maks into the warmest, best hug he’s ever gotten that also kind of hurts because his ribs are still broken, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. “Of _course_ you, really.”

June arches an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that my taste in people is _anything_ but exceptional?”

“People?” Maks can’t help but ask.

“One day she declared herself the only straight person in our friend group,” Ernest says. “Zip looked at her and said, no, you’re bi, and June replied, you know what, you’re right. So yeah, people.”

“Yes, people,” June says. “I date only the highest-quality people.”

Maks frowns at her from behind Ernest’s arms. “But… me?”

“You’ve never seen you perform,” June says. “Also, come on. I made you the shortest, tightest shorts humanly possible because your _ass_. Goddamn.”

Maks looks from her to Ernest, pulling away slightly so he could see the other man’s face. June could conceivably lie to him, if she thought it was for his benefit or if it would be funny. Ernest never would. “Really?” Maks asks.

“Really,” Ernest replies, and there’s no doubting his sincerity.

“The real question is, what are your thoughts on the matter?” June asks. “We’ve done most of the talking.”

Maks laughs, which also hurts and yet doesn’t hurt at all. “Yes. A hundred and ten percent. I’m all in. Let’s do this.”

June gives him a full, beaming smile- she’s full of smirks and pursed lips all day, but this is something real and genuine that Maks will treasure forever- and Ernest kisses him on the forehead. “Good,” June says. “I don’t _do_ rejection.”

“Also, that makes the following much less awkward,” Ernest says. “The Queen told us she dropped you at the campsite, but you can’t sleep here on a set of broken ribs.”

Maks shrugs. “I’ve done worse.”

“Gross,” June says. “I have the biggest and most comfortable bed of the three of us, we’re all crashing there tonight.”

“In a fun way or in a sleeping way?” Maks asks, mostly to make Ernest blush bright crimson, which he does.

June sighs. “Unfortunately, in a sleeping way,” she says. “You are too broken for the moment. Give it a few weeks and then…” Her smile takes on a distinctly predatory cast. “We’ll see.”

 

 “First Zip and Cindy and now this,” Roz says to Jack at the next weekend’s Friday campfire. “We’re surrounded by people groping each other.”

Zip makes a face, cocking her head at Rosario. “Okay, Roz, I get it, you just went through a breakup, happy couples piss you off, but me and Cindy are _classy_. We’re not about that PDA life. Not like…”

“Come on,” Jack says. “Be kind. It’s sweet.”

“It’s not sweet when it’s in my face while I’m eating,” Mal replies.

“Exactly what I mean,” Zip says. “Cindy and I keep it in a tent, like professionals.”

Mal shakes his head slightly. “My tent is right next to yours. You have no moral high ground.”

That at least makes Rosario and Jack cackle.

“Although, honestly, I feel like they need to eat at some point,” Zip says thoughtfully. “Roz, pass me the water?”

Rosario does as Zip asks. Zip cheerfully carries the gallon jug of water to the other side of the campfire, then pours the entire thing over Ernest, Maks, and June.

June comes up spluttering and spitting mad. “We weren’t doing anything sexual!” she shouts. “Why the _fuck_ would you do this?”

“Honestly, I’d rather you’d have been making out,” Rosario says. “The ducked-heads giggling holding-hands thing is somehow worse.”

“We can do making out,” Maks says with a broad grin. They’d gotten _very_ good at the making out over the past week.

Roz pinches her nose. “That is not what I mean, Jesus Christ.”

“You all should probably eat,” Zip says. “If any of you pass out tomorrow because you were too distracted by each other to take proper care of yourselves, I will be forced to take Cindy and run for the hills.”

Ernest, blushing furiously, says, “Sorry, sorry, we just-“

“I don’t want to hear what you just,” Roz says. “Just- eat, okay?”

Maks can’t help himself. He says, in an undertone, “I know what I’d _like_ to eat,” which makes June burst out in fresh laughter and Ernest turn a red heretofore unseen off of fire engines, and sends the rest of the crew into groans of disgust.

“How are you all my friends?” Mal asks.

Zip ruffles his hair. “Your mom picks your friends for you and she thinks you need fun in your life.”

“Mother is wrong,” Mal replies darkly.

Zip shoots Maks, Ernest, and June a glare. “Guys. Eat. Seriously.”

“It’s going to be 70 at the highest tomorrow,” Maks says, “No risk of heatstroke.”

“Less risk of heatstroke,” June corrects. “But yeah, what he said!”

Zip looks at them for a long moment, then stands, taking her bag of sandwiches with her. “I’m going to go eat with Cindy, because I’m getting the sense that you three want privacy. Jack, Mal, Roz, want to join me?”

“No,” Mal says.

“Let me rephrase,” Zip says, hauling Mal up by one shoulder. “Jack, Mal, Roz, let’s go.”

The second the last one of the four of them- Mal, still reluctantly being dragged by an energetic Zip- finally fades from view, June leans over and taps her phone. “Seven minutes, forty-two seconds,” she announces.

Maks cackles. “Ha! I win!”

“I should have realized Jack’s manners would have kept everyone there politely for longer than five minutes,” June says. “Rookie mistake.”

“I can’t believe our friends just left like that,” Ernest says.

Maks shrugs with the one shoulder he has that works. “Well, we were going out of our way to be over-the-top,” he says.

Ernest blushes slightly. “So, Maks. What do you win?”

He smiles, his gaze shifting from Ernest to June. “I think I’ve got it all right here,” he says.

June stands up like she’s going to leave. “Okay, that’s too much, I’m joining them-“

Ernest and Maks both grab one of her wrists. “No, June,” Ernest says.

“Stay,” Maks says.

June sits down hard. “You two are lucky you’re cute.”

Maks hums a happy sigh and throws himself over June’s lap and halfway onto Ernest’s. Ernest immediately begins running his fingers through Maks’s curls, and June starts feeling up his abs with no trace of hesitation or shame. “I’m so happy,” he says.

“Me too,” Ernest replies.

June smiles. “Me three.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the road for this fic, because I will never get a better ending line than that so I should stop trying. Anyway, if you want to scream about this ot3, Renaissance festivals, or Renaissance history in general, hit me up at my tumblr, i-am-having-an-emotion. Also, if you enjoyed this fic, see if there's a Renaissance festival near you that you can support. They're really fun places, especially if you can legally drink in your area!
> 
> If you have a prompt you want filled for this ot3, ALSO hit me up at i-am-having-an-emotion. I love this ship and I love getting ideas from other people in the fandom!


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